For the next few weeks, life settled into something resembling a rhythm for her. The adrenaline spikes of high-stakes missions gave way to something steadier, more routine. Missions came and went like the ticking of a clock, each one predictable but no less demanding. They weren't glamorous, but they were necessary: a series of calculated tasks to keep the world a little less chaotic.
None of the assignments bore the same intensity as rescuing Dagger from the clutches of Black Sun, and part of her was grateful for that. The brutal reminder of what their work could lead to lingered in the back of her mind, a ghost that appeared in the quiet moments between tasks. But another part of her—a smaller, restless part—craved that challenge. That feeling of being pushed to the edge of her limits and proving she could survive.
These missions, by comparison, were straightforward. Pirate suppression. Disabling illegal weapons caches. Extracting valuable intel from outdated tech facilities. They demanded precision, teamwork, and, occasionally, a sharp sense of humor to cut through the monotony.
She fell into a rhythm of sorts. Early morning training with Vance, afternoons spent on operations, evenings lost to debriefs and maintenance of gear. It was exhausting, but in a way, it felt good to keep moving. To not stop long enough to dwell on anything—her past, her present, or the uncertainty of her future.
Volt, of course, never missed an opportunity to lighten the mood.
"Think of it this way," he had said as they prepared for a mission to take down a rogue band of mercenaries. "We're basically glorified janitors. We clean up society's messes. And the messier it is, the bigger the paycheck."
"Great," she had replied dryly, checking the edge on her nano-blade. "Let me guess—you're the mop?"
Volt grinned. "No, Speedy. I'm the bleach."
Tank, ever the voice of reason, rolled his eyes. "Both of you, shut up and focus."
---
The missions blurred together after a while, a series of checklists: Secure the hostages. Neutralize the threats. Retrieve the stolen intel. Each one brought its own unique set of challenges, but none required the kind of split-second, life-or-death decision-making she had faced with Black Sun.
The first mission back was straightforward: pirate suppression. A ragtag group had taken over a remote trading outpost and decided to play kings of the hill. When their demands started including absurd amounts of weapons and ransom, it was time for an intervention.
"They're like toddlers with guns," Tank grumbled as they disembarked the jet.
"And you're the babysitter," Volt quipped, sparking his gloves.
Her task was simple: flank the perimeter, clear out any resistance, and secure the hostages. The pirates were disorganized, more bark than bite, but even amateurs could get lucky.
As she sped through the narrow corridors of the outpost, her nano-blade humming faintly in her hand, she couldn't help but feel a tinge of nostalgia for the adrenaline spikes of the Black Sun facility. These guys were too easy.
When one pirate managed to spot her, he froze, fumbling with his blaster. Before he could even lift it, she was behind him, blade poised at his neck.
"Drop it," she commanded.
To her surprise, he did. He even raised his hands in surrender.
"That's new," she muttered, cuffing him before moving on.
---
The next mission was more delicate: shutting down a terrorist cell operating out of an abandoned research facility. Their goal? To blow up an orbital station that housed critical supplies for relief missions.
"Blowing up humanitarian supplies," Volt had said during the briefing. "Classy."
Tank had rolled his eyes. "We just need to dismantle their operation. Fast and clean."
Fast and clean turned into a chaotic mess when one of the terrorists accidentally triggered an alarm. What was supposed to be a stealth mission became an all-out brawl.
She found herself in a makeshift lab, dodging blaster fire as equipment exploded around her.
"Volt," she barked into her comm, "how's that override coming?"
"Two seconds!" Volt's voice crackled back.
"You've been saying that for ten!"
"Time is relative!"
She groaned, taking cover behind an overturned desk. When the override finally kicked in, locking the terrorists out of their systems, she allowed herself a moment to breathe before regrouping with Tank and Volt to mop up the stragglers.
---
Not every mission was exciting, but some had moments that stuck with her. Like the time they had to recover stolen prototypes from a rogue mercenary group.
"What kind of prototypes?" she had asked during the briefing.
"Something classified," Volt had replied, which was code for "I don't know, and I don't care as long as we get paid."
The prototypes turned out to be experimental drones—compact, fast, and heavily armed. One of them managed to escape the facility, forcing her to give chase through a dense forest.
It was exhilarating, sprinting after the drone as it zipped between the trees, her enhanced reflexes keeping her just ahead of its targeting systems. She finally caught it mid-air, disabling it with a precise slash of her nano-blade.
"Nice catch, Speedy," Volt had said when she returned to the jet, cradling the disabled drone.
She rolled her eyes. "Still not my name."
---
The pattern of missions blurred together: suppressing uprisings, intercepting illegal weapons shipments, rescuing trapped civilians. Each one brought its challenges, but none were personal. None had that edge.
She was grateful, in a way. The quieter missions gave her time to think, to recover from the chaos of the Dagger rescue. But part of her missed the intensity, the feeling of being pushed to her limits.
As they touched down after yet another mission—a simple escort for a scientist transporting valuable research—she caught Volt's eye.
"Missing the high stakes yet?" she asked, smirking.
He shrugged, sparking his gloves off. "Not every mission needs to be life or death. Sometimes, a simple win is enough."
Tank grunted in agreement. "Less drama. More efficiency. I'll take it."
She nodded, though a small part of her still craved the rush. It was the curse of her speed, she supposed. Always wanting to go faster, to do more.
For now, though, routine wasn't so bad.